


Fire knocking at the heart

by Kangoo



Category: La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fae & Fairies, M/M, attempt at arranged marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: “Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,Met the fire smouldering thereAnd overbore its lesser flame;”— Goblin Market by Christina RossettiIt is unwise to make open-ended deals with the fae, but Arthur has always made his best decisions while completely unaware of the foolhardiness of his actions. This time is not an exception.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Fire knocking at the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eguinerve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/gifts).



> For my dear friend Eguinerve, whose as talented a writer as she is patient, since I started working on this SEVEN WHOLE MONTHS AGO and she never complained about it, like a SAINT  
> (Quarantine, man. It does things.)
> 
> Sorry for the wait, friend, and I hope you enjoy this <3

The first time Arthur saw Maleagan was… difficult to put into words, even after the fact. Perhaps even more so. Hard to describe but impossible to forget. The way he moved, not quite a man as much as a man-shaped shadow... Even in a crowd of knights, all shiny and wonderful in their novelty and in the envy they awoke in Arthur, his eyes kept drifting to him and him alone. Something about the line of his shoulders, the pale brightness of his eyes glowing like moonlit silver —

 _Mesmerizing_. That’s the word. He was mesmerizing. 

Now that they face each other again — as enemies, this time, rather than mere adversaries in a tourney — those strange feelings return to him tenfold. He’s never been more distracted in a fight than he is now, eyes inexorably drawn to the other man as he twists and spins out of the way of Arthur’s attacks before retaliating. He’s swift, almost dancing rather than fighting, but his strikes betray a strength greater than his lithe form would suggest. It’s all Arthur can do to parry his head-on attacks, as blocking them outright leaves his arms shaking from the shock.

It’s obvious from the grin he bears that he takes some twisted enjoyment from the fight. He’s like a cat with a mouse, kicking Arthur this way and that, keeping him off balance when he had ample opportunities to gravely wound him. God knows Arthur is distracted enough to leave himself unguarded.

Then, eventually, Maleagant tires of these games. He surges forward almost too quickly for the eyes to follow, brings his sword down in a wide arc. Arthur hisses in pain as Maleagant’s sword bites into his flesh. He stumbles, falls on his back, and only narrowly avoids a fatal blow by rolling to the side.

He’s beautiful even like this, hair wild and the edge of his blade inches from Arthur’s throat. _Mesmerizing_ indeed. 

Arthur lurches to his feet, his grip on his weapon sure despite the lancing pain. His hand, when it comes away from the wound, is red and slick with blood. Maleagant stops, cold, cold eyes sharpening to a sword’s edge as they settle first on Arthur’s hand, then the tip of his sword, gleaming softly under the setting sun even though it’s stained crimson.

It’s a slight distraction, just enough to leave him surprised by Arthur’s next attack. He blocks the downward strike on sheer instinct, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in predatory concentration. This time, when he pushes back, Arthur is ready for it. He ducks down at the last possible second and catches the wrist of his sword arm, twisting it so Maleagant can’t struggle out of the hold without hurting himself. His opponent is quick as a snake to strike back, blocking his arm in the same way. They stay locked together for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes—

Arthur would lose himself in them if not for the pain pulsing in his side. Stuck like this, unable to move or get away or strike back, the animal fear rising in his chest makes him panic-blind. Each heartbeat is echoed by a thrum that sends fire in his veins. Short of breath, vision swimming, he’s acutely aware of his life running between his fingers in rivulets of blood, and eager to finish the fight before the wound finishes _him_. 

He throws his knee up, slamming it into Maleagant’s side once, twice, until he feels something _crack_ and Maleagant’s hold slackens, allowing Arthur to throw him back and to the ground. His sword clatters to the ground, out of reach, and he can’t get to his feet in time before Arthur is above him, Excalibur hovering above his chest.

“Do you yield?” He asks, wheezing, his arm tight against his still bleeding stomach.

Maleagant stares up, teeth bared in a snarl, but the threat is empty and he soon drops his eyes away from Arthur’s face, silently conceding defeat.

“I yield,” he spits out. It sounds as if the words are being pulled out his throat right through the barrier of his clenched teeth.

For an instant the air seems to… hum, almost, in the wake of those words. Something halfway between the heaviness before a storm and the faint, distant ringing of a bell, more vibration than sound. He can’t seem to tell it apart from his own heartbeat, deafening in his ears, or the weight of exhaustion settling over his shoulders like a mantle.

One more thing, and he can rest. He just has to make it through this.

“The Gods don’t want your sacrifice, and I don’t want your death,” he says, words clear despite the haze he feels settling over him. He almost misses Maleagant scoffing at the mention of gods. “But you are a knight-” Stumbling forward slightly, Arthur offers Maleagant his sword, hilt first. Excalibur is so heavy, more than a sword has any right to be, and he can’t tell if it’s the blood loss making him think so or some greater, intangible burden, like the crown and the weight of Maleagant’s cold, cold eyes following his every move. “Rise, then, and make me your equal.”

Their fingers brush as Maleagant takes Excalibur. His touch is cold, a balm on Arthur’s feverish skin. He doesn’t kneel so much as he falls to his knees: he couldn’t get back to his feet even if Maleagant turned his own sword against him. Arthur knows he won’t though. There’s something honorable about the dark knight, despite everything.

He can barely make out Maleagant’s words through the buzzing in his ears but the touch of Excalibur on each of his shoulders is unmistakable. He exhales a sigh of relief. His arms drop limp to his side. It’s done. He’s a knight. _Finally_.

Tradition demands he rise to accept his title on his feet. He almost manages it, but as soon as he stands nausea and pain overwhelms him, and he collapses almost immediately.

Arthur is unconscious before he hits the ground. All he takes with him into oblivion is the image of Maleagant’s self-satisfied smirk.

-

There is little time to think about Maleagant once he wakes up. First he must heal, and the pulsing pain of his wounds is enough to make him forget about the one who inflicted them. Then there is Guinevere, who does an admirable job at keeping him distracted from the pain. By the time he can finally stand on his own two feet without aid they are already betrothed, her father eager to cement an alliance between him and the new king of Camelot.

Arthur watches it all happen with a sense of bemused confusion. He never knew marriage could happen so fast, and with so little input from either of the participants.

Technically, he could say no. He’s king, after all. But Merlin pins him with a look that tells him it would be unwise to do so, and Guinevere is beautiful and sweet, giving him little reasons to go against the decision that was made in his stead.

Still it weighs down on him. Not so much the betrothal itself — it has always been an uncomfortable certainty that he would have little to no say as to whom he’ll marry — as much as what comes with it. Drafting a marriage contract that will strengthen and satisfy both parties takes time. So do the preparations for the ceremony. He’s grateful for the chance to keep busy while his body heals. Less so once he’s strong enough to hold a sword and still doesn’t have the opportunity to sneak away to spar with his knights. He went through all this trouble to become one of them, and all he has to show for it is another scar.

It’s all the more infuriating that putting together a wedding ceremony worthy of royalty doesn’t demand any more input from him than the original betrothal. All he does is sit in meetings and nod at the right time. So much time wasted in boredom when he could be learning how to be the king they already expect him to be.

Fortunately Guinevere sits at his right, looking just as weary of the proceedings as he is. 

He surprises himself the first time he has to stifle a laugh at something she said. She steals a glance at her father, then at him, and smiles in response to his mirth. He was afraid she might resent the situation — being wed to a man who is barely more than a stranger — but so far she has only offered him kindness and friendship, and he’s endlessly glad for it.

Given time, he hopes they will become true friends.

The situation is not ideal, but he is genuinely grateful for Guinevere’s presence. She is more than he ever hoped for in a queen. She is soft and light, like silk and other precious things, but her mind and sense of humor are as sharp as his blade. He looks at her and feels a certain kind of awe and fondness, as well as the boyish anxiety he’s never been able to shake off when in presence of a beautiful woman. 

Maybe one day he could fall in love with her.

But today he looks at her and his mind fills with images he had nearly forgotten since the fight that led him here. Memories half-blurred by blood loss and adrenaline of a shadow, or a man, the flash of a sword and silver eyes—

His heart beats faster and he knows, deep down, that it’s not because of Guinevere. He lifts a hand to his side, fingers brushing lightly over the cloth, following the unseen line of his nearly-healed wound.

That’s when he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he still knows nothing of the man who knighted him — and nearly killed him. Spurred by this strange feeling churning in his guts and this new sense of camaraderie with Guinevere, he turns to the woman and lowers his voice to a whisper.

Her brows furrow when he asks her about Maleagant, mouth twisting in an uncomfortable grimace.

“He is one of the _Tylwyth Teg_ ,” she eventually says. “A faerie playing at human affairs.”

“He is- a changeling, then?”

She shakes her head. “No. He hails directly from the Winter Court, though why he left it to settle in Gore is a mystery to all but him.”

Arthur reels back. Maleagant had seemed strange, yes, but he would never have expected him to be one of the fair folk. To think he had fought him and _won_ —

His victory was fair. But when has this ever stopped one of the Unseelie from coming for revenge?

-

Despite his newfound fears, the preparations continue without a hitch. Maleagant seems to have disappeared, which leaves Arthur both relieved and disappointed in a way he doesn’t dare to think about.

Despite the many weeks spent talking about it, the day of the wedding — the Winter Solstice, to bring some light into the darkest day of the year — comes almost out of the blue. He can’t say he is any more ready for it than he was months ago — but he hadn’t been ready for the crown either. Fate seems to have a habit of dropping responsibilities in his lap whether he can handle them or not.

Arthur breathes deeply and tries to keep his smile from wavering as he stands in the chapel. He shifts on his feet, glances at the people assembled in the pews. Their eyes follow his every movement, which does little to calm his nerves. He wonders if they can tell his fear is more than a new groom’s nerves, if they can see the bags under his eyes from a sleepless night. Even the lack of rest can't numb his anxieties completely as he stands ready to be wed to a woman who is nearly a stranger to him.

Already his mind wanders far from the chapel, heedless of the murmuring crowd. The interior of the building isn't entirely safe from the icy winter air and his side aches from it. The injury inflicted by Maleagant has healed into an ugly scar, yet in the cold it still hurts as if it were fresh rather than with the dull ache of old wounds in bad weather. He rubs it through layers of clothing, almost unconsciously, and knows that if he were to touch it with bare skin it would be noticeably colder than the rest of him.

Injuries from faerie silver do not heal easily. It serves as a reminder – both of his unexpected survival and the man responsible for that pain. He's come to haunt Arthur's thoughts as of late. That first discussion with Guinevere about Maleagant seemed to summon him, and Arthur has had few dreams that were not shadowed by his otherworldly presence. The imminent wedding has not helped any. Now even in the waking world he finds himself obsessing over the other man, one part child-like fascination over his nature, two parts curiosity about the man himself. 

When he closes his eyes he sees the sharp edge of a smile, eyes that shine like twin stars, and it feels like standing over a frozen lake. A single wrong move and he would plunge into the dark, never to be seen again. This darkness in his mind feels entirely foreign, like something that was placed there by someone else, and he wonders if he has been bewitched. How many stories about the Fair Folk also tell of mortals who got too close and were forever changed by it? Longing for another touch, another taste, wasting away from a hunger larger than them, _lovesick–_

Not that Arthur is in love. But his scar throbs and he thinks about the bite of silver, the taste of blood on his tongue, and wonders if it might have changed him as surely as if he had sunk his teeth into a goblin fruit.

He bites his tongue, instead, and musters up a smile as the bells ring and Guinevere is ushered in. 

She is beautiful — she has never been anything but. Her fair head gleams golden under the candlelight and her eyes, when they settle on him, are warmed by her smile. And yet, he looks at her and wishes for black hair and hard eyes, a smirk like a wolf’s gaping maw. 

Arthur flinches, feels his smile waver as she steps to his side, leaning slightly towards him in silent comfort. The priest begins to speak, but his words struggle to reach Arthur as blood rushes in his ears. It must be a spell, he thinks, or a curse. A fae’s last revenge on the mortal who bested him. Why else would he feel this… this _longing_ for his one-time foe? He was no more than a beautiful curiosity, an interesting adversary, nothing he ought to obsess over — nothing like Guinevere.

Or perhaps it is less longing than envy. Perhaps it isn’t Maleagant he wants but the freedom inherent to his Seelie blood, the wildness no one could ever hope to strip away. Kingship weighs on Arthur at the most unexpected times, and he always finds himself wishing for simpler times, when his biggest worry was his brother’s petulant behavior rather than war and political alliances.

(Is it so selfish to want to marry for love? With the crown heavy on his head, he must accept that the answer is _yes_.)

He forces himself to listen more intently as the priest drones on and on, swallowing back the dread that threatens to overcome him. For this land he’ll do anything; anyway, he’s sure Guinevere will be easy to love, in time. Once the bittersweetness of victory over Maleagant has faded from memory. Once he has fooled himself into believing this is what he’s always wanted.

“Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony—”

Arthur catches himself hoping that someone would. A coward’s way out, to be sure, but an easy one. Unfortunately the pause is more traditional than practical: of the few who’d dare to doubt the lawfulness of this union, none are present.

“— Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

(But this time, and many more besides, fate listens.)

The audience only has time to hold their breath for the customary few seconds of wait before the doors of the chapel crash open, breaking the quiet atmosphere as surely as if it were made of glass.

Arthur whirls around, hand falling to the pommel of his sword, and swears when he grasps nothing but air.

The sight in front of him steals all desire for a weapon. 

It’s Maleagant, striding into the chapel with all the confidence befitting of a creature which has never considered a place might not belong to him. He looks—

(Even more beautiful than he did in battle—)

—Different. His pitch-black cloak flares behind him, glinting like the night sky as candlelight catches on the minuscule gemstones embroidered in the fabric. His long, elegantly braided hair, his fur mantle and the polished silver of his decorated armor — he is a crown short of looking _regal_ , and instead falls squarely in _enchanting._

Shadows rush after him, howling like the northern wind, clinging to the walls and dimming the lights until his eyes become the brightest thing in the room.

Maleagant stops abruptly, a few feet down the aisle from Arthur, and his eyes sweep over the silent audience before he settles his full attention on the king. It’s only for a moment, but the intensity of it freezes his breath in his lungs. There’s _hunger_ there — it’s both terror and elation that awaken in Arthur’s heart when he realizes it’s for him.

He then turns his attention to the priest, dismissing Guinevere with a glance as he takes in the holy man’s attire and raises a single, mocking eyebrow.

“I object,” he drawls. He doesn’t show any emotion but Arthur still gets the strong impression of a smirk, as if his face was a porcelain mask behind which his lips had just quirked in quiet amusement.

The priest gapes at him. It’s an obvious struggle for him to speak with the respect that Maleagant is due. Whether it’s fear or disdain, Arthur can’t tell. “On what ground?” 

“The groom is already promised to another.”

(And here is where the other shoe drops.)

The gathered people gasp nearly as one at the revelation. Faeries cannot lie: that much is true. To learn their king would break a contract to marry another is all the more shocking when you can be sure that the bearer of bad news is speaking, if not absolute truth, at least not a falsehood.

Still, Arthur wishes he knew what prior engagement the fae lord is talking about.

“And who, pray tell, may that other be?”

The sudden apparition of Merlin’s voice makes Arthur flinch. It’s hard to tell if the druid’s presence is a comfort or a hindrance. He’s been the reason behind most of the greatest changes in Arthur’s life — both positive and not. Who knows which way the balance of fate will tip tonight.

This time Maleagant does smile, slight and sharp as a fox-grin.

“Me.”

All the air leaves the room, such is the shock of the people assembled there. Arthur can barely make sense of the words even as a part of him flares with wicked relief at the news, against all logic.

“I am Maleagant, King of Gore, heir presumptive to the Winter Court.” At this he bows, too deeply not to be mocking. “I have come for Arthur Pendragon’s hand, as is my right by law.”

“What laws give you this right?” Merlin bites. His fingers tighten around his staff. Magic fills the air like static — he expects a fight, because he knows the answer and doesn’t see a way out that doesn’t end in failure or battle.

Maleagant, on the other hand, looks more outraged than angry.

“He gave up his blade willingly, to be knighted by my hand.” A knighting is hardly a betrothal, but it _is_ a declaration of intent, of ownership, especially if he has been planning this from the moment he was handed Excalibur by Arthur himself. He speaks the truth, and that gives his words a power that rings clear and true. “By law of the Courts and the Old Magic itself, he is _mine_.”

By those same laws, Arthur or Leodagan, father of the slighted bride, would be in their right to fight the claim in single combat. But not only is Maleagant one of the best fighters in the realm of men — he is of the Winter Court. Theirs are the Wild Hunt and the silver roads that course through the woods, taking away trespassers and fools who stray off the beaten path. They are not known for their mercy or their forgiveness. The few who dare take oath to them find themselves forever bound in blood, and oathbreakers are hunted beyond death until their souls are nothing but scraps to feed to their ghostly hounds.

Going against him would be madness. Leodagan still seems inclined to try it, if not for Arthur’s sake then for his own. He almost saved his daughter from the interest of an Unseelie Lord, only for this fate to fall on his king instead — there’s a bitter irony in that turn of events.

What would he think, Arthur wonders, if he knew Arthur doesn’t even entertain the idea of fighting the claim?

“You can’t use Arthur as a pawn in your petty little games,” Merlin hisses. He steps forward to put himself more fully between Maleagant and Arthur, hackles rising. “His fate—”

“You think I care about _fate_?” Maleagant’s voice tolls in the heavy silence. “The Norns themselves couldn’t force my hand. If I wanted a pawn, I would take it, and damn their machinations.”

He turns slightly to face Arthur head-on and everything else— falls away. The full attention of his icy eyes is almost too much to bear. Maleagant’s eyes won’t leave him as he says, “Yet it is not a pawn I seek, but an equal, in battle and outside of it. Something only your king here has proven capable of being.”

It’s a miracle in and on itself that there is no riot at the sound of that. It is, after all, a ludicrous statement. 

“What would you have, then? You in Guinevere’s stead, binding you to him today?” Merlin asks, tone too close to a challenge for comfort or propriety.

This makes Maleagant scowl, although not for long. The bitter expression fades as he doesn’t look away from Arthur’s face. “And shackle myself to a man I might want to kill a week into our marriage? No.” Quieter, _softer_ , as if the words are meant for Arthur only, he says, “What I demand is a courtship — and the time from now to the next Winter Solstice to do it properly. A year, not a day more and not a day less, after which you will be free to make a choice.”

Arthur swallows his anxiety, breathes in slowly and asks, “And if, after a year’s courting, I say no?”

“Then I will leave, and you will be free to marry whoever you see fit.” Maleagant tilts his head, the movement more reminiscent of a bird of prey than a man. His silver eyes strained on Arthur feels like the tip of a blade under his chin. “But something tells me this is not what will happen.”

His low voice carries a dark promise that Arthur desperately wants him to keep.

“Arthur, you don’t have to do this,” Merlin says.

“And what kind of king would it make me, to disregard the very laws I am supposed to uphold?”

The bitter twist on Merlin’s mouth is mirrored by Maleagant’s satisfied smirk. His eyes crinkle at the corner, the first sign of a sincere smile since Arthur met him. “You’ve come to a decision, then?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Arthur draws himself to his full height and casts his eyes on the audience to this strange situation. The wary muttering that had been rising as they spoke fades into silence as their attention focuses on him. He pulls his kingship to him like an armor, makes himself appear more sure of himself than he feels.

“Maleagant of Gore,” he says, returning his eyes to the fae prince, “I accept your demand of courtship.”

(There will be troubles, later, ruffled feathers to smooth, political alliances to mend. But now, as Maleagant smiles slow and wicked and true, he can’t bring himself to feel dread. 

Only relief.)

**Author's Note:**

> if you want me to write you things, come haunt me on [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/) ♥


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